


An End to Mutiny

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Post July Second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Dee tries to help Thomas escape from Drake's nefarious influence.  Did you know that "Drake" means "dragon"?  So does "Dracul."  Imagine that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An End to Mutiny

            Thomas hated Ireland.  He especially hated the squalor of the dingy streets of Dublin, hated the local warlords with their self-defeating infighting, hated the greedy arrogance of the English lords who had come here to profit, hated the way everything turned first to deceit and then to bloodshed.  The stunning beauty of the landscape wasn't recompense enough for what he missed about his travels in Italy: culture, civilization, intellectual conversation and gentlemanly honor.  He resolved that afternoon to make his farewells to his Lord Essex, and depart for London.  
            The side street was shadowy in the late afternoon light, and Thomas felt a sudden chill, the small hairs raised upon his neck.  But he was a man who had often been in battle, and instinct told him that more than just a March wind had disturbed him.  He placed his hand lightly upon the pommel of his sword as he turned around.  
            But the man behind him was English, solidly built, possessed of a ruddy charisma.  "Thomas Doughtie?  I have been looking for you.  I have here letters of introduction from a mutual friend, Sir William Wynter."  
            "Sir William is a right good friend of my family," said Doughtie.  Yet still he did not relax.  Some warrior's instinct told him that the situation was not quite right.  
            The man approached him, waving the letters, but as he stepped closer he did not proffer them for inspection, but instead extended his hand.  "Captain Francis Drake."  
            "Indeed, the name is familiar to me.  I had heard that your ship was in these waters."  Doughtie took his hand, clasping it firmly.  "My Lord Essex hath duly inquired of your whereabouts."  
            "It is my hope that he might have some means of employment for me," said Drake.  "I thought mayhap you could ease the way."  Drake's eyes met Doughtie's, and they were bright, sparkling with some hidden amusement.  Doughtie found it impossible to look away.  
            Thomas was overcome with a strange lethargy.  He wanted to sleep; he hadn't the energy nor the inclination to dispute Drake in his desire.  "Come with me," he said, his voice dreamy and distant.  "I shall see if his Lordship hath time for an audience before we sup."

            Drake stayed far into the evening, regaling the company with tales of the West Indies and battles with the Spaniards.  To Doughtie, he seemed surrounded by a dark radiance, an unnatural magnetism which captivated all who listened, most of all Doughtie.  Earlier, he had sung Drake's praises to Essex, telling his Lordship what a fine, bold, and trustworthy man the captain was.  His own words surprised him; they had only just met, and he hadn't really the slightest idea what Drake was truly like.  Drake had said nothing to contradict him, casting his eyes modestly down at the floor.  The coy glance, the shy smile made Doughtie's heart pound irregularly in his chest.  He felt dizzy, overwhelmed, like he needed to sit until the world righted itself.  Drake's charms weren't lost on Essex, who, like everyone else, was taken in immediately.  He contracted Drake for naval maneuvers to take place early that summer.  
            They lingered over drinks, casting dancing shadows in the firelight.  Finally, it was time to retire, and since Drake was Doughtie's acquaintance, it seemed only natural that the mariner would lay with the gentleman.  Doughtie was exhausted.  It took all his energy to put on his sleepshirt, and the moment he and Drake had piled into his gigantic bed, and he had pulled the curtains closed, he was asleep.

            Doughtie had a very strange dream.  He was on hands and knees in the bed, and Drake was behind him.  He could feel the mariner's stiffened cock pressed against his buttocks; for some reason, the sensation excited him.  He felt Drake's fingers against the rim of his arsehole.  They were slick with something, some kind of oil or lotion, and then they were inside of him.  Surely, he should have protested, but in the dream he did not.  In fact, he rather liked it.  Before he knew it, they were fucking.  He could never have imagined himself stooping to buggery, but it was happening, and it was the most delicious thing he had ever felt.  Moisture beaded on his own prick, and he felt that he might come without any help at all.  He was crazed with desire, he was mad for Drake, wanted to give his life to that powerful, attractive man.  
            And then Drake leaned forward and bit him on the side of the neck.  Thomas felt fang hit vein, was overcome with terror, and then warmth, release, unimaginable pleasure.  He came, but it was besides the point, the little death a footnote for the greater, for Drake was killing him, draining his blood.  
            When Doughtie woke, Drake was already dressed and ready to descend to breakfast.  Doughtie stumbled weakly out of the bed.  He told himself that he must be becoming ill from the damp spring weather, wandered over to the washbasin, tried to push the vivid and lingering dream out of his mind.  As he washed face and hands, he wondered if perhaps he ought to call a servant to trim his beard.  He checked himself quickly in the mirror.  On the right side of his neck, near the back and almost covered by his hair, were two small punctures.           

            Doughtie spent the next four months accompanying Drake everywhere.  It became well known that the captain and the gentleman were "very good friends."  In practice, what this meant was that Doughtie pulled every string he could to see to Drake's advancement.  
            And every night, he spread his legs, rejoicing in an act that he would formerly have called utterly degrading.  He was in love with Drake, infatuated with, addicted to the captain.  But no words of this sort passed between them.  Drake assumed, Drake commanded, and Doughtie obeyed.  
            About once a week, Drake drank Doughtie's blood.  Doughtie looked forward to this more than anything, even though, or perhaps especially since, every time he was convinced that he was going to die.  He was always pale and weakened the next morning, but Drake covered for him, and made certain that he had an enormous breakfast.  
            But after the horror of RathlinIsland, Drake resolved upon what Doughtie had wanted to do months before: get the hell out of Ireland.  And then it fell out that Drake had already made his arrangements with Hawkins, and they did not include bringing a gentleman on his ship.  "Let me come with you, Francis," Thomas pleaded.  "I can be of help on a merchant voyage.  I have a right keen head for business."  
            "Nay, Thomas Doughtie," said Drake.  "Thou wilt help me in another wise.  Go now to London and speak of me to the folk of import there.  For, as I have told thee, I will sail the Pacific.  Do well for me, and thou shalt accompany me to the new world."  
            Doughtie was devastated.  Life without Francis could not be imagined.  But he resolved to obey nevertheless; he gave his solemn word to ingratiate himself with the prominent members of the Queen's court and to press Drake's suit upon them.  
            But oddly, completely unexpectedly, when Drake's ship sailed out of harbor, Doughtie did not break into helpless tears, but rather felt as though a great shadow had lifted from him.  For the first time in months, the sun felt warm upon his face, and he smiled.

            Thomas Doughtie was, however, a man of his word, and he did take steps to advance Drake's cause while in London.  But he was far more interested in his own affairs: he had landed himself a job with a rising star at court, Christopher Hatton, and he was courting a pretty maid that he was destined to marry and then lose to calamity soon after.  Also, his brother continued to get himself into trouble with loose talk and looser action, and so Doughtie was more concerned with using his influence to free John from prison than with advocating a privateer's voyage to the Pacific.  
            Drake was dim in his memory.  It was difficult for Doughtie even to remember what he looked like, and whenever the gentleman tried to fix his thoughts upon the mariner, he felt himself overcome with a great drowsiness, making it impossible to concentrate.  
            Doughtie was shocked the day that Drake tuned up at the Inn, greeting him with familiarity and reminding him of the promise he had made to invest in Drake's new adventure.  Doughtie's first response was the same unease, the same terror he had felt that fateful Irish afternoon, but soon he experienced the familiar waves of hazy euphoria.  He showed Francis to his room, poured him a glass of wine, and stripped himself, awaiting his Lord's pleasure.  
            "My Thomas," Drake growled.  "I have missed thee sore."  In a matter of moments, Drake's fangs were in his neck; Drake's cock was up his arse; and he wondered how it was possible for him to forget that this was the only thing in his whole life that mattered to him.

            Doughtie was enthusiastic when he received an invitation to visit Doctor Dee at his house in Mortlake.  He had always been fascinated with the occult, and Dee was a world-renowned expert.  He took it as a sign that he was really starting to be recognized as a person of quality.  
            Dee invited him to sit.  "So thou goest with Drake?"  
            "Aye," Thomas replied.  "He is my heart's companion, and I would not have him undertake such a risky adventure without me."  
            "For him, no risk at all," said Dee.  "As the stars have said, 'Drake, the Dragon, will prevail.'  But for thee, Thomas Doughtie, great is the risk indeed.  Will thou not stay safe in England?"  
            Doughtie frowned.  "Nay, good Doctor.  I would stand fast with my friend, e'en should the cost be my life itself."  
            "Art thou familiar with the stories of a great warlord of Walachia, Vlad Draculea, known as the Impaler?" said Dee, shifting the subject abruptly.  
            "I have heard such reports as to make children shiver in their beds," said Doughtie.  "A most barbarous, and yet some would argue, effective, ruler."  
            "There are e'en darker stories attached to his name," said Dee.  "Draculea, son of Dracul.  Dracul is a Romanian word meaning both devil – and dragon."  
            "Indeed," said Doughtie, feeling rather uncomfortable.  
            "Well, well, well.  Many tales do circulate of no substance whatsoever – tales of garlic and sunlight and crucifixes, for example.  But thou, as a student of the high art, must have no use for such superstitions."  
            Doughtie smiled vacantly, having no idea of what Dee was talking about.  His own intellect and range of knowledge were quite humbled by the master scholar's puzzling discourse.  
            "Here," said Dee, pressing something into Doughtie's hands.  It was an oddly misshapen lump of metal attached to a leather cord.  "Wear this upon thy journey.  It may protect thee from fevers and pernicious diseases of the blood."  
            "I thank you, good Doctor," said Doughtie, baffled but grateful.

            Doughtie forgot all about the amulet until they reached the coast of Africa.  He was too preoccupied with the adventure, with his deepening love of the Captain General.  It became clear that however Drake used Thomas, he adored his blue-blooded gentleman.  There were, of course, adjustments to be made.  Doughtie did his best to ignore the little slights of his breeding, the insults against his men.  He fought side by side with Francis against the Portuguese ship, blocking a savage blade from reaching him by lunging in front of the attacking officer.  
            Later, Doughtie wiped the sweat from Drake's brow.  The Captain General smiled indulgently.  "Good Thomas, there is no need for thee to be concerned of my well-being in such circumstances.  Look instead to thy own protection."  
            Thomas nodded, but did not tell Drake of Dee's prediction of doom.  It mattered not.  If he had to die to save Drake's life, so be it.  But if Drake needed his protection, then Doughtie would do well to see to his own health otherwise.  In the heat of the African sun, he recalled Dee's words, and realized what a boon he had been given.  The ague was rife in these parts.  He took to wearing the amulet concealed beneath his doublet.  
            But if he was well-protected from disease, he was not protected from Drake at all, or so he thought.  He never connected Drake's worsening temper, his desire to banish Doughtie to the command of the _Mary,_ to the charm he now wore around his neck.  Neither did Drake.  He only knew that he could no longer even touch Doughtie without flinching from the pain, that his delightful gentleman slave had suddenly become anathema to him.  
            While they were apart, Doughtie slept with the torn rag he had used to minister to Drake pressed against his face, drinking in Drake's scent, hoping that the Captain General's displeasure would soon be at end.  But while his heart stayed true, in his mind a sea change was stirring.  He now began to question Drake's decisions, Drake's authority.  It was as though he had awakened from a long sleep.  
            Drake knew that only one thing could block his vampiric enchantment – the spell of one whose magic exceeded his own.  Doughtie had always dabbled in alchemy and astrology; apparently his study had gone further, much further.  "Think you Master Doughtie a sorcerer?" he asked Ned Bright, and the answer both surprised and failed to surprise him.  
            It was obvious to Drake that Doughtie knew what he was.  It was also obvious that Doughtie was taking steps to protect himself from Drake.  It was bitter knowledge; even though Drake knew that he could cast a glamour over men, had certainly done so to Doughtie, it hurt to know that his gentleman would choose not to love him.  Perhaps someday, he would even have the power to overcome Drake.  The final straw was the rumor that Doughtie had told some of the men he was in possession of the captain's darkest secrets.  Drake knew all too well what happened to those of his kind when they were discovered before they could assure their own security.  He understood that if he did not destroy the man he had once doted upon, he himself would face destruction.  
            Throughout the trial, Drake was only too glad to be ridding himself of the traitor, the one who threatened his command, perhaps his very existence.  His one regret was that he would not be able to kill Thomas properly by draining the blood from him.  In the past, he had always been most careful to keep his bloodlust under control with Doughtie.  He didn't actually feed on blood, and while he needed it to survive, he didn't need a large quantity.  But the taste, the smell was intoxicating, and the urge to let himself go, to drink deeply enough to kill, was difficult to fight.  He had killed by accident before.  But Doughtie he treasured, Doughtie he had – dare he admit it? – loved, which made the betrayal a thousand times harder to bear.  
            And now he was reduced to taking what sustenance he could from the common sailors around him as they slept.  After having tasted the blood of a gentleman, it was like sticking his fangs in dung.   Still, he heartened himself with the thought of the beheading.  If he couldn't drink of Doughtie's lifeblood, he would see it spilled, draining into the ground in copious quantities.

            Doughtie had always felt certain that his own occult practices were neither sinful nor offensive to God.  But as much as he respected the man, he couldn't vouch for Doctor Dee.  And since Thomas was to die by evening, he saw little point in wearing an amulet designed to protect him from illness.  
            Before he went to confession, he took it off.  
            "Would you take communion with me?"  Drake turned to look, disconcerted by the request.  Before him, small and frightened, was the Thomas Doughtie he had loved.  
            It was only a few hours until the execution, the longest, hardest hours of Drake's immortal life.  But Doughtie was suddenly happy.  No longer at odds with Drake, he fell quickly back into mute adoration of the man who had ordered his death.  Drake could barely choke down his dinner, for his senses were filled with the tantalizing smell of Doughtie's blood, which reached him even down the length of the table.  
            Finally, he could stand it no more.  He pulled Thomas aside, where the other men could not hear them.  "It seems that at the last, thy magic did fail thee, Thomas."  
            As before, Doughtie was indignant, but now he seemed hurt by the accusation as well.  "I tell you, good Captain, that never did I use sorcery to endanger the voyage, or even on my own behalf, only for a few small charms of protection given to the mariners.  But e'en if it were my desire to perform such acts of malediction, I have no such powers.  I fear I am no Doctor Dee."  
            "Thou knowest well enough a spell to vex a vampire," Drake hissed.  
            "Vampire?" asked Doughtie.  "I know not the word."  
            "What I am," said Drake.  "Thou knowest _that_ well enough.  We live for eternity by taking but small portion of the lifeblood of others.  'Tis a noble curse, and there were those of my line who were princes in Hungary."  
            "The dragon - Vlad Draculea," said Doughtie.  "Now I understand!  Doctor Dee didst try to explain, but his words were most obscure to me.  He said strange things about garlic and sunlight…"  
            "All ways of legend to defeat a vampire – ways ineffectual.  But he did teach thee another way, did he not?"  
            "Nay," said Doughtie.  "He but gave me an amulet to protect me from fevers and diseases of the blood, the selfsame one I wore always until…"  
            Drake and Doughtie looked at each other in mute comprehension.  
            "Fetch the amulet from thy belongings, Thomas," Drake commanded.  Thomas complied, holding the lump of metal to the light.  Drake flinched at the sight of it.  "'Tis an odious thing," he said.  "Put it on."  
            "But Francis…"  
            "Put it on, I say."  He waited a space while Thomas haltingly complied.  "And now decide, Thomas Doughtie, decide without interference from me.  For I must needs take thy life within a few short minutes, and I would know the truth of thy heart.  Wouldst have me, as leman and master, for all eternity, or wouldst thou preserve the purity of thine immortal soul?"  
            "Thee, Francis," Doughtie said without hesitation.  Then tears filled his eyes, for understanding what he had said, he realized that his soul was not bound for heaven.  
            "Then remove the pendant, and throw the vile thing into the sea," commanded Drake.  "And afterwards, trust me although I know that of late thou hast little reason to do so."  He pulled his sword slightly out of its sheath, not far enough for the men outside the tent to see, to worry that Drake had drawn his sword on cause of threat.  He wrapped his hand around the blade as he shoved it quickly back in the scabbard.  His hand bled profusely from where the blade had sliced it.  He held it to Doughtie.  "Drink," he said.

            Three days later, Thomas Doughtie clawed his way out of the pebbly sand.  He was grateful that Drake had taken care to bury the body honorably, with the head seated on the neck.  It would have been unpleasant for his blind body to grope for it in the heavy earth of the grave.  
            It was past midnight, and Doughtie could see perfectly.  In the morning, he would learn that his sharp eyes were sensitive to sunlight, a fact which had spawned exaggerated stories of how the sun could burn the flesh from a vampire's bones.  For now, his vision availed him to find Drake's tent.  But before he was halfway there, he could feel the master vampire, could feel his own blood worshipping the ancient and powerful Dracul blood pounding through Drake's heart.  He ran the rest of the way to the tent, so swiftly and silently none of the mariners noted his presence.  
            Drake rose from his bed, where he had been pretending to sleep.  Thomas fell to his knees.  His legs would no longer support him.  
            "Tonight we hunt," said Drake, gesturing imperiously.  Doughtie followed, weak but excited, doubting a bit his ability to hunt anything in this condition.  But they ran miles in minutes, reaching a settlement of Patagonians who were dangerously close to where the fleet was positioned.  Drake pointed at a large, fierce looking man asleep on his side.  "'Tis the knave who killed Winterhey," he said.  Their eyes met, and Drake grinned.  "Feast."  
            Thomas nodded grimly, understanding that there were great advantages for a vampire who traveled the world over, visiting many a savage land, never staying too long in one place.  
            Thomas could feel Drake's great power, the strength of his will forcing the victim into a deeper and deeper sleep, unable to waken as Drake took the first bite.  At the smell of blood, Thomas was on fire, and could not stop himself from biting savagely into the other side of the native's neck.  It was ecstasy: he could feel the life flowing from the man into himself, into Drake; it was a dark, delicious secret to bind them forever.  When they had finished, Doughtie realized that his cock was erect.  The life force stirred his natural generative impulse; he turned to Francis with a desperate desire.  
            "Aye," said Drake.  "Now thou dost understand.  But not here, lest we rouse these sleepers."  As they fled back into the scrub near the shoreline, Drake said, "Come morn, these people will see his corpse and know the nature of the thing that took him.  Then they will stay well away from us, not in any way annoying the fleet.  Primitive folk often have more sense in such wise than modern people, who do with reason convince themselves that if something is not of their ken, it doth not exist."  
            "And what of me, good Captain?" asked Doughtie.  "How shall the men react when they see that I walk again, with my good head 'pon my shoulders?"  
            "Thou canst hide thyself," said Drake.  "If thou dost not will it, there is no seeing thee.  Look at the ground."  
            It took Doughtie a moment to understand what Drake was saying.  Neither man cast a shadow.  "And there is no reflection either, in a glass or in water.  Light leaves no impress upon thee.  I have heard tell that our people did once come from a dark dimension, one which knew naught of sun.  But perhaps that is a wives' tale."  Drake grabbed Doughtie roughly, forced him to the ground.  "I prefer to believe those things which I myself can see and feel.  Like this."  
            Thomas submitted instantly.  He felt the force of his life stemming from Francis.  He belonged to his lord, wanted nothing other than to please him.  "The way of my people is best," said Drake as Thomas knelt, taking Drake's cock into his mouth.  "Someday, thou wilt undoubtedly have a legion to serve thee.  But thou wilt ever be mine, and so thy blood dost know."  He ran his hand through Doughtie's hair affectionately.  "And there's an end to mutiny."          


End file.
